“Would someone please explain to me what’s going on here?” Mrs. Vincent implored.
“Rebecca killed Lisbet and we have to go dispose of the murder weapon,” I explained as I pulled the bottle out and held it up for all to see.
The air pressure in the foyer dropped from all the sudden intakes of breath at the same moment. Rebecca screamed and turned to aim the gun at me, but I swung the champagne bottle low and hard, catching her behind the knees and sweeping her feet out from under her. She fired off one shot as she fell, which sent everyone running for cover. I pounced on her the moment she hit the floor and smacked her hand with the champagne bottle to make sure she let go of the gun. It slid across the floor and people shrank from it as if it were a copperhead.
Tricia was the first one at my side, throwing herself on the ground to pin her sister-in-law’s legs down. “Careful, her heels are sharp.”
The crowd closed around us as Rebecca continued to writhe and wail, but I wasn’t about to get up until the police arrived. I looked up and saw a curvaceous blond on her cell phone. “Are you calling 911?”
She made a face of utter disbelief at me. “Get serious.” Someone at the other end of the line answered and she said, “Hi, it’s Regan Crawford. Is he in?”
“This is my story!” I protested.
“I don’t see you filing it,” she said. Then, into the phone, she cooed, “Peter, honey, I have the most amazing story.”
Life, love, and murders. Just when you think you have them figured out, they find a way to surprise you.
20
“I hope I never see you again.”
Tragically, there were quite a few people in my life that were in a position to be telling me that, but fortunately, the one who was saying it was someone about whom I felt exactly the same. Meeting Detective Darcy Cook had been unpleasant. Getting run down with her had been painful. Saying good-bye to her was delightful.
We were on the sidewalk in front of Kyle’s precinct. Detective Myerson had come to retrieve his partner, freshly discharged from the hospital, and go over the paperwork necessary to transfer Rebecca to the care of Suffolk County. Detective Cook was still learning to walk on crutches, but I had no doubt that she would soon be using them as instruments of punishment as well as transportation.
Tricia and Cassady had come along with me, mainly to make sure I actually showed up and spoke to Detective Cook because I would have been perfectly happy to let our relationship languish where it was. But my well-bred buddies had prevailed upon me, convincing me that the gracious gesture would also go far toward mending things with the more important homicide detective in my life.
Assuming they could be mended. I’d pushed Kyle to the brink and I still wasn’t sure if I’d backed off in time or if he’d gone over. I’d actually spoken to Detective Lipscomb more yesterday, in the aftermath of Rebecca’s arrest, than I had spoken to Kyle. I’d picked up the phone half a dozen times last night, wanting to call him, then realized I had no idea what to say. This morning, he was standing back and observing as I attempted to mend fences with Detective Cook.
“I understand and I apologize,” I told her. Flowers or candy probably would have been too weird, but I wished I had some ceremonial offering other than a handshake. I’d even considered a bottle of champagne, but I didn’t think she’d see the humor in it. If I’d handed her an object, she would’ve been forced to take it, but as I stuck out my hand, I knew there was an excellent chance she was going to just stare at it.
But she shook it. And then she offered her hand to Tricia. “I’m sorry for your family’s loss. Losses. But it must help to have such a dedicated friend.”
Tricia smiled appreciatively. “Thank you. It does.”
“Friends, plural,” Cassady corrected, extending her hand.
Detective Cook actually laughed and shook her hand. “Plural.”
Detective Myerson gave us all a wave of farewell. “Stay out of trouble. And stay out of Southampton. Please.” He began the slow process of getting Detective Cook to the car.
I turned around to face Kyle. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the ground. At least he wasn’t pinching his lip.
Tricia patted me on the arm. “We’re going to walk down to the corner to get a cab. We’ll wait for you. Kyle, see you later,” she said with a confidence I didn’t feel.
“Don’t make her cry,” Cassady warned him before Tricia led her away.
Kyle’s brilliant blue eyes drifted up to meet mine. “Why does she think I’d make you cry?”
“Because I’ve been my usual calm, unemotional self lately and it wouldn’t take much.”
His eyes drifted back to the pavement. “You okay?”
“I didn’t get shot.”
One hand came out of his pocket and ran through his hair. “I know how that goes.”
“Kyle, I’m sorry.” This isn’t where or how I’d planned to say it, but I realized I couldn’t wait.
He looked up, surprised. “For what?”
“You want a list?”
He shrugged. “Just tell me if there’re any exclusions.”
I tried not to smile. “No, I’m sorry for the whole mess.”
He let himself smile. “Yeah, but since you turned out to be right, I’ll cut you some slack. Just don’t plan on using Cook as a personal reference anywhere.”
“What about you?”
He squinted thoughtfully and I plunged ahead. “I know it’s been six months, a little more, but—”
“Have you been talking to Lipscomb?”
I nodded. He shook his head and I wasn’t sure which of his partners frustrated him more at that moment. If I could still be considered a partner in any sense. “This is worth working out,” I said when he didn’t say anything.
He stepped in close. “Right again.”
“Just maintaining my batting average,” I said, trying desperately to sound cool, like I hadn’t doubted it for a minute.
“You need to leave before I engage in inappropriate public behavior and get in serious trouble.” He brushed the back of his hand against my cheek. “Call me when you get to work.”
“I’m not being tailed anymore.”
“No, but you’ll have decided where you want to have dinner.”
“I already know where I want dessert.”
“Deal.” He pressed his finger to my lips and hurried up the stairs.
“Kyle?” I called after him. He stopped and came back down. While we were resolving issues, I had another one to toss on the pile. “Speaking of phone calls. Last week, when you called right as I was leaving, you were going to ask me something and you never did.”
He nodded. “I’ve been busy.”
“What was it?”
“Does it matter now?”
“How can I tell when I don’t know what it was?”
He shook his head, amused. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to go away for the weekend.”
I would have kicked myself if my Blahniks hadn’t had such pointed toes. “Did I miss my moment?”
“Not at all. We’re just crossing Southampton off the list. We’ll talk about it at dinner.”
Tricia and Cassady were fidgeting on the corner as I floated up. Cassady’s eyebrow slid up to an appreciative angle. “Things back on course with New York’s finest?”
“Finest detective or finest friends?” I asked, linking arms with them.
“We were always fine,” Tricia protested.
“Liar,” I said.
“No, truly,” she insisted. “I was furious with you, and rightly so, but we were always fine at the foundation. Well, mostly fine. I honestly can’t imagine you making me so angry that I wouldn’t be your friend anymore.”
Cassady waved her hands in mock distress. “Tricia, please. You know how she loves a challenge. Don’t give her one.”
I checked my watch. “You two have time for coffee before work?”
“I consider it a medical neces
sity,” Cassady answered.
“I do,” Tricia agreed, “but do you? You have an article to write.”
“She what?” Cassady answered for me since I was dumbfounded and unable to answer for myself.
“You’re not going to let Peter Mulcahey have the last word on this tragedy, are you? Especially since I’ve instructed my family not to speak to any member of the press except you. Lunch is at one at Aquavit, by the way. Mother, Dad, Richard, Davey, and me.”
I looked to Cassady, anxious to share my disbelief. Cassady shook her head. “Let her take charge, Molly. It’s her way of grieving.”
As we walked down the street, I was profoundly grateful for getting—and taking—a second chance. Seems to me that even when you know how difficult the process will be, some things—falling in love, solving a mystery, making friends—are worth doing again because they give you another opportunity to understand and appreciate the complexities of the human heart. And those lessons, however hard won, help to reassure us that we’ve done the right thing and life will now fall into place.
For a little while, at least.
Also by Sheryl J. Anderson
Killer Riff
Killer Deal
Killer Heels
Available from St. martin’s / mirotaur Paperbacks
Praise for Sheryl J. Anderson’s Molly Forrester Novels
KILLER COCKTAIL
“Fashion commentary, urbane asides, and witty characters keep the pages turning.”
—Library Journal
KILLER HEELS
“Sure to please Sex and the City fans.”
—Booklist
“Mix a splash of Carrie Bradshaw, a dash of Stephanie Plum, and a wee bit of Kinsey Millhone and you have Molly Forrester, advice columnist (‘You Can Tell Me’) for Zeitgeist magazine by day and amateur sleuth by night … Ample laughs help propel a well-crafted plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Delicious.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Killer Heels, Sheryl J. Anderson’s hip debut mystery, sparkles like fine champagne, an intoxicating mix of wit, perception, and insouciance, and a wickedly clever but genuine depiction of single life in the city. Killer Heels will tap right to the top of the Best First lists.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of Death of the Party
“A fun, ‘girls’ night out’ type of book that blends humor, craziness, and mystery”
—Mystery News
Keep reading for an excerpt from Sheryl J. Anderson’s next Molly Forrester novel
KILLER DEAL
Now available from St. Martin’s Minotaur
“You need a dead body. A really cool dead body,” Cassady suggested.
“Is that something I order online or do they have a department upstairs?” I asked. Believe me, if there were a way to order up a stylish cadaver in Manhattan, Cassady Lynch would know. Networking is second nature to her and with her long legs, amazing figure, and cascading auburn curls, her life is overflowing with people eager to do her all sorts of favors.
“I’m fairly sure you have to special order those,” Tricia said. “Especially one that’s already been refrigerated.”
My two best friends and I were spending our lunch hour shopping—that’s why granola bars fit in desk drawers—at the marvel that is the flagship ABC Home Store on Broadway. High heaven for shopping addicts, it is eight levels of treasures ranging from dainty little soaps to massive French Country antiques. When I was growing up, one of my favorite books was about two kids who deliberately get locked in the Metropolitan Museum of Art overnight; I used to dream about doing the same. Now I dream about being locked in ABC Home. With a platinum card. That someone else pays off.
We were on the first floor, helping Cassady search for a new pair of earrings. A fellow intellectual properties lawyer at the public interest group where she works had persuaded her to attend some sort of scientific seminar that night. She was having second thoughts, but didn’t want to leave her colleague hanging, so she’d decided new baubles would amp up her excitement about going.
Cassady frowned, gently enough to show displeasure but not deeply enough to start a crease. “At the risk of disparaging the Mayor or the Commissioner, there have been plenty of homicides in Manhattan this summer. I’m sure several of them are unsolved and worthy of your talents.”
Love and murder are my favorite topics as a journalist and as a person. What with the extreme behavior, the denial of risk, the blinding focus, and the will to succeed, being in love and being homicidal aren’t as far apart as one might think. Or hope. And the place where those two mindsets intersect fascinates me most of all. But it’s a dangerous intersection and this time around, it would prove to be an incredibly costly one.
“Believe me, I’ve tried,” I said. “Not to sound like a ghoul, but whenever I hear about an interesting case, I pitch it to my darling editor, but she keeps shooting me down.”
“Maybe Eileen—and/or Fate—are suggesting you try a social crusade or a government scandal,” Tricia suggested, examining a lovely pair of freshwater pearl dangles. “A less macabre route to greater journalistic glory.”
As opposed to the murder route I had been pursuing. While I’m best known as the advice columnist for Zeitgeist magazine, I’ve recently—through sets of unique circumstances—had the opportunity to solve two murders. I wrote articles about both investigations that were well-received, but didn’t give me quite the career transformation I’d hoped for. My editor continues to scoff at my desire to formally move beyond “You Can Tell Me” and build up an investigative resume. And while I love my column and the front row seat it gives me at the demolition derby of love, a girl needs a challenge.
“Molly’s got a gift, Tricia,” Cassady said firmly, “we should encourage it.”
“I want to see her byline in The New York Times as much as you do,” Tricia agreed, “I was just hoping there was a less dangerous way to get her there.”
“I don’t want to work for The Times,” I told them. “I just want to figure out the next step in my career.”
“Wonderful. We’ll wish for anvils to fall on Eileen,” Cassady suggested.
Eileen Fitzsimmons is my editor at Zeitgeist. We’re one of those glossy Manhattan lifestyle magazines that will instruct you to “Be Proud of Who You Are,” teach you “Ten Bulletproof Ways to Seduce Him,” and share the need to “Get Off Your Ass to Get Your Ass Off,” all in the same issue and with no sense of irony. Eileen was brought in to “put some teeth into the thing,” according to the Publisher. At this point, the only place she’s sunk her sharp incisors is into the tender hearts of the staff. Those who don’t loathe her fear her. Best I can tell, she enjoys both reactions equally.
Eileen has been good to me. Once. Which makes me nervous, since it brings to mind Don Corleone: “Someday … I’ll call upon you to do a service for me …” Eileen’s goodness was publishing my second investigative article, the one about Tricia’s brother’s fiancée being murdered at their engagement party. Perhaps you heard about it, maybe even read it.
As part of Eileen’s periodic efforts to toughen up the magazine, she asked me to write about the murder and the part I played in unraveling it. I wrote a strong piece (if I may say so), we got lots of great letters and e-mails about it, and I’ve been asking Eileen to let me tackle another investigative feature ever since. But she just scrunches up her nose like I’m a particularly mangy kitten, pats me on the shoulder, and sends me back to my column.
“Which brings us back to needing a body. One that will seem attractive to Eileen,” I explained to Tricia and Cassady.
“Hmmm. Eileen as necrophiliac. Hadn’t considered that before,” Cassady said.
“Please. Like I don’t have enough trouble looking the woman in the eye as it is.”
“Play your connections. Get the inside scoop from your scrumptious Sherlock,” Cassady suggested.
Tricia answered before I could. “Cassady, no. You know how Kyle feels abo
ut our investigations.”
Hearing Tricia refer to them as “our” investigations was delightful, because I certainly couldn’t have solved either murder without their assistance, insight, and support. And she was absolutely right about Kyle; he’d be appalled at the notion of my actively scouting for another murder investigation. He’s very protective—of me and of his turf. He’d prefer that the two not meet. And I can understand that, even if I don’t always agree with it.
Kyle Edwards and I met at a crime scene. Kyle was there because he’s a homicide detective, literally one of Manhattan’s finest. I was there because I’d discovered the body. We got to know each other very well very quickly, in part because he suspected me of being the killer. I felt it might clarify the situation if I solved the murder to prove him wrong. Not exactly Cinderella, Prince Charming, and the glass slipper, but we’ve made it work—most of the time— and are navigating the misunderstandings, drive-by shootings, and other surprising events that can complicate a romance between two people in our positions.
“Kyle wouldn’t stand in my way if I got a great story,” I assured us all. “He’s just not going to encourage me in that direction.”
“He’s happy with you as an unfulfilled advice columnist?”
“Happy with people not shooting at me.”
“So when’s he moving in?”
I looked at my watch so I wouldn’t have to look at either of them. “That soon?” Tricia asked.
“I need to get back.” I leaned in to hug them both good-bye and was practically stiff-armed by Tricia, who glared at me mightily.
“Like you’d ever let Eileen put you on that short a leash,” Cassady snarked.
“Molly Forrester, you’re holding out on us,” Tricia declared.
“Not at all. I’m just trying not to be premature in making any announcements.”
Killer Cocktail Page 27
